How Heathens Love

You are a
child.
Soft,
and round eyed.

But you are also
old.
Older than
me,
but only in the depths
of your soul.
Where the thickets
and the thorns
reside.

I feel the same
ancient pull
when I talk to
you
as I do
when I speak with
the gods.

I want your spine,
curving into my
stomach.
I want to breathe
in your
hair.
And anchor you
down,
with the faulty tethers
of my
arms.

I want to press
my godless mouth
to your holy lips.
Pin your sacred
hips beneath my
fingertips
and show you
how heathens
love.